Till You Hear From Me: A Novel

by Pearl Cleage

  “We don’t have a rec room, remember?”

  “There was something else I wanted to tell you,” she said, reaching for the door.

  “What’s that?” He could smell her burger through the door and realized he was hungry, too.

  “Oscar offered me a job,” Toni said, opening the door to the young waiter who was holding her lunch aloft on a big silver tray. She smiled and stepped aside.

  “What job is that?”

  “Spying on you,” she said, watching the waiter putting down her meal carefully.

  “Did you take it?” he said as she reached for the check, added a generous tip, and scrawled her signature.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  The Heart of Darkness

  I WAS STUDYING THE GROWER’S WEBSITE WHEN JOE CONNER CALLED me back from D.C. So far, I’d counted five full-time jobs under Flora’s personal umbrella along with several others she farms out to her dedicated cadre of volunteers. Unlike most of the nonprofits I’ve ever worked for, WEGA doesn’t have a budget problem. They have an organizational problem. If all I did for Flora was write up each job description separately so she could see exactly what she was up against, that would be a good start.

  “Professor,” I said. “How goes it in the academic world? You keeping current?”

  “I could ask you the same question, my far-flung friend.” He laughed. “You are woefully out of the loop.”

  “Which is the reason I’m calling you,” I said. “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, there might be something to the purging voters thing, but that targeting the icons plot is yesterday’s news. Political urban legend.”

  “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” I said. “You don’t think there’s any truth to it at all?”

  “Not a scrap. It came up about a month ago, right after the inauguration, and I checked it out all the way back to the heart of darkness.”

  That’s what we always called the Republican National Committee.

  “I came up with nothing, nada, zip, zilch. It only sounded plausible for its fifteen minutes because nobody could believe the way these brothers kept going off on Barack. Andy Young said he wasn’t as black as Bill Clinton, Jesse Jackson wanted to cut his balls off, and Jeremiah Wright almost did.”

  He chuckled, although how that could ever be amusing is a mystery to me.

  “Black folks would rather believe it was part of an evil Republican plot instead of a bunch of angry, egotistical old men without a new battle plan.”

  He had reduced the lives of three courageous, if recently somewhat confused, race men to four scornful words: angry, egotistical, old men. He had also dismissed the idea of an ongoing race-based plot as naïve. They deserved better, and so did I.

  “Well, I’m going to be down here until Monday,” I said. “If you hear anything else, let me know.”

  “Sure, kid, but this Obama train is picking up speed. You need to get back up here as fast as you can.”

  Kid?

  “Take care, Professor.”

  But as I hung up the phone I knew that what I needed was a new contact.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Good Old Days

  WHEN THEY PULLED INTO MOULTRIE A FEW MINUTES EARLY FOR THE mayor’s prayer breakfast, their route to City Hall took them right past the church where the Rev was scheduled to speak later that evening. To publicize his appearance, they had hoisted a large hand-lettered sign written in bright red on what looked like a king-size bedsheet. “See Living Black History Before It’s Too Late!!! Rev. Horace A. Dunbar, Tonight Only, 8 P.M.”

  It was the three exclamation points that elicited the first smile of the day from Mr. Eddie. After their discussion last night, it had been a quiet morning. The Rev knew his friend needed time to think. He also knew there was no appropriate advice to give, so he didn’t offer any. Instead, he put in a Shirley Caesar CD and let her call in the spirit on Ed’s behalf.

  “Stranger on the road,

  The road seems long …”

  The sheet flapped gently in the wind as Mr. Eddie slowed to a stop at the sign.

  “They must figure you not going to be around much longer,” he said.

  “How you figure that?”

  “Before it’s too late. What do you think it means?”

  “Maybe it means before I decide there might be better ways for me to use my time than trying to get these Negroes to make something out of themselves.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like writing a book.”

  “A book about what?”

  “About my life.”

  Mr. Eddie turned the corner and headed for City Hall. “How you gonna write about it when you still livin’ it?”

  “Lots of people write about their own lives,” the Rev said. “None of them waited until they died.”

  Mr. Eddie didn’t say anything for a minute then he frowned slightly. “So that’s what we’re going to do? Sit around Paschal’s with a bunch of guys talking about the good old days?”

  At the other end of the parking lot, closest to the entrance, the Rev watched two large women in elaborate church hats emerge carefully from their immaculate sky blue Fleetwood. He knew where they were going. To have breakfast with some living, breathing black history, before it’s too late.

  “Maybe that’s just what we ought to do,” the Rev said, sounding suddenly weary.

  Mr. Eddie eased the big Lincoln into a space marked reserved as per their instructions from the mayor’s staff, and turned off the car. “Well,” he said slowly, “I ain’t gotta figure nothin’ out. Once we get this month done, I’m gonna put this car in the shop for its annual checkup and get my gardens ready for spring planting. Then I’m gonna see if I can get Iona to give me the recipe for her peach cobbler and beat Charlie at checkers until I get tired. I might even go down to Tybee and see what they got new on the menu at Sweet Abbie’s. I might go visit my boy.”

  When he mentioned Wes, his voice was steady, but his eyes held all the questions he couldn’t answer.

  “Then when you figure out that all we’re supposed to be doing is exactly what we been doin’, you call me, and I’ll check the tires, get my suit pressed, and show up at the designated hour to take you where you need to go.”

  The Rev didn’t know which he admired more in his friend, his calm or his clarity. “Just like always?”

  Mr. Eddie took out the keys and reached for his hat on the backseat. “Nothin’ changes but the changes.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Two Grown Men Doing Business

  HOTEL BARS ARE THE SITE OF SUCH A DIZZYING VARIETY OF rendezvous, assignations, meetings, trysts, dates, liaisons, and all manner of affairs, conducted by all manner of people just passing through, that it was difficult to surprise the bored-looking bartender, but Major Estes managed it the minute he appeared in the small, dark paneled room and looked around. He was wearing a long dark overcoat, a black hat pulled down low, and sunglasses. He didn’t step in so much as he sidled, glancing around furtively, looking for all the world like a cartoon spy on an impossible mission.

  Wes briefly considered pretending not to be himself and leaving the fool to fend for himself, but he hadn’t made the choice so he couldn’t override it now. It was still early and the place hadn’t filled up yet with travelers seeking happy hour, but too weary, or too wary, to venture outside the hotel’s protected confines. There was one couple at a corner table with a laptop set up between them, talking quietly, and one man alone, working his BlackBerry and sipping a gin and tonic between texts.

  Wes raised his hand without waving it and Major scurried over, but didn’t sit down. The bartender stayed where he was, waiting for this strange new arrival to light somewhere before offering him a libation. The waitress was late so he was filling in. Reluctantly.

  “Are you Harper?”

  Wes looked at him. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Estes? Take off your coat.”

  The man repeat
ed the question. His voice a little more insistent. “Are you Harper?”

  “Why the hell else do you think I was waving at you?” Wes said calmly.

  Satisfied, Major slid into the chair across from Wes. The bartender headed their way, slowly, but Major made no move to remove his coat and hat. Wes sighed. This cloak-and-dagger shit was getting on his nerves already. When he had volunteered to try to cool this guy out, he had no idea he was a complete nut job. Oscar was slipping.

  “Can I bring you something, sir?”

  Major shook his head. “No. Nothing. Thank you.”

  “He’ll have a beer,” Wes said, smiling the way people do when a member of their party is acting weird to let the stranger or the server know that the person is harmless. “Heineken.”

  The bartender went to get it and Major frowned behind his sunglasses. “If I had wanted a beer, I would have ordered one.”

  Wes looked at the man and suddenly wanted to kick his ass. Then he wanted to go find Oscar and kick his ass. Twice.

  “You look ridiculous,” he said quietly. “We are two grown men doing business. That’s all. No matter what you think, or what anybody told you, that’s all.”

  He paused to let his words sink in as the bartender brought the beer and retreated. “You’ve got some questions and I’m here to help you figure out some answers. That’s what I do, so relax. Whatever’s wrong, I can fix it.”

  The man leaned forward, his eyes still hidden behind those Nicole Richie shades. Wes wondered if he’d filched them from his wife.

  “That’s what they always say,” Major hissed at Wes, “and then somebody ends up going to jail.”

  The smell of fear was rolling off this guy in waves.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told Mr. Thames, and I’m telling you. I can’t do time.”

  Major’s voice rose slightly and the man with the BlackBerry glanced their way briefly. Wes realized he had to get control of the situation or risk this guy having a public meltdown right there in the hotel bar.

  “Listen to me, Mr. Estes,” Wes said firmly, “I understand your concern, but you are going to have to get hold of yourself.”

  “I’m not …”

  Wes held up his hand and the man stopped in mid-sentence. “The first thing you are going to have to do,” Wes said and it was an order not a request, “is to take off all that spy shit and drink your beer like you’ve got some goddam sense so we can figure out how to make you feel better. Do you understand me?”

  The man didn’t blink. Wes didn’t either.

  “Or you can take your ass on home and call those guys at the casino to tell them why you still can’t pay back what you owe.”

  The man just sat there for a minute then he stood up and took off his coat and hat and laid them on the empty chair. When he sat back down, he slid the sunglasses off, folded them slowly, and slipped them into his breast pocket. When he looked up at Wes, his eyes were haunted and sad. Wes pushed the beer closer and Major took a long swallow.

  “I used to be lucky,” he said, quietly. “Then something happened. I couldn’t catch a break no matter what I did. So I started borrowing from these guys and now they’re hassling me, and my kid needs tuition … you know how much it costs to send a kid to Georgia Tech?”

  Wes didn’t know and didn’t care. This guy’s troubles were beyond banal. All he had to do was throw some money at them and Major Estes would be his friend for life.

  “That’s why this operation is as important to you as it is to us,” Wes said, soothingly. “And that’s why the first thing you have to do is calm down.”

  Major took another long swallow of beer. “I can’t go to jail.”

  “Mr. Estes, nobody’s going to jail,” Wes said.

  “Call me Major.”

  When Oscar had first told him the guy’s name, Wes thought he was a military man, but that wasn’t the case. The man was simply one of those unfortunate black folks saddled with a name chosen to trick white people into having to address a black man with a title of respect because it was his Christian name. There were lots of them: General, Mister, Junior, Major.

  Wes smiled. “Look, Major, all you have to do is exactly what you’ve been doing. Have you had any problems so far?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then what makes you think you’re going to have any problems now?”

  “My supervisor’s secretary,” he said. “Me and her ride the same casino bus to Biloxi once in a while and she told me that the feds have been asking questions.”

  “Did she say what kinds of questions?”

  “She didn’t know, but she said they were there twice.”

  “In how long?”

  “Couple of weeks.”

  This was definitely not a good sign. The new Justice Department had a significant interest in protecting voting rights, especially the voting rights of citizens who would most likely vote Democratic. He’d let Oscar know, but at the moment, job one was cooling out this skittish civilian who was playing politics at a level where the stakes were almost as high as gambling with gangsters. Maybe higher.

  He motioned the bartender for another round. “Okay, here’s the deal, Major. As I see it, you got two problems. One is a political problem, which means I’ll handle it. The other is a financial problem, which means …” Here he stopped and smiled at Major like they were old friends. “I’ll handle it.”

  Major looked confused. Their drinks arrived and Wes waited until they were alone again. For somebody who didn’t want a drink, Major was sure knocking back the brews.

  “We both know that when we pull this shit off—and we will pull it off, I can promise you that,” Wes said, exuding confidence, “these white folks are going to hand both of us a sizable piece of compensation for our services.”

  He had now introduced two powerful elements into their discussion: racial solidarity (any reference to “white folks” harkens back to a brotherhood as old as slavery), and money (the universal sweetener).

  Major rose to the bait. “What do you mean, you’ll handle it?”

  “I mean our boys in D.C. will make the Justice Department find someplace else to stick their noses so there’s no chance of them looking over your shoulder and you can be about the business at hand.”

  Major looked hopeful, but not convinced. “You can make that happen?”

  “There hasn’t been time for this new crowd to replace everybody yet. It works from the top down and we’re ahead of the curve.”

  Major nodded slowly. Washington politics were a mystery to him. When the friend of a friend had first come to him four or five years ago to see if he might be of assistance, he couldn’t remember even asking what party the guy was in. His kid was getting ready to start college and times were tight. Accidentally wiping some voters off the rolls only meant there would be a lot of confusion on election day and then they’d just have to register again. Seemed to Major that was no big deal. It wasn’t like it was still a death-defying act or anything. Besides, he needed the money. He still did.

  “What about the other?”

  Wes didn’t blink. “How much do you need to buy yourself some breathing room?”

  Major wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he liked the sound of it. “Breathing room?”

  Wes nodded. “This whole operation will be over soon and you can take care of everything once and for all, but I mean, just to kind of cool things out for a minute, catch up a little so the guys aren’t leaning on you so hard.”

  When Wes had called him out of the blue to set up this meeting, Major had hoped this would be one of the outcomes. If he could get five thousand dollars in his hand, he could relax a little, stop looking over his shoulder all the time.

  “Five grand?” It was a question, but he whispered it like a prayer.

  Wes reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope, his judgment vindicated again, as if he needed any further proof that he knew what the fuck he was doing. He slid it halfway
across the table toward Major and stopped, tapped it with his finger. “I’ve got ten in this envelope.”

  Major’s eyes widened like a kid who wakes up on his birthday and sees a pony in the backyard with a big red bow around its neck.

  “It’s not part of any arrangement you have with Oscar. It’s because you’re a vital member of this team and I can’t afford to let you fuck everything up because you’re distracted about a couple of dollars.”

  Major’s eyes flickered down to the envelope. If he could have figured out how, he would have picked it up, stuffed it in his pocket, and made a run for it before Wes changed his mind, but he wasn’t that fast or that crazy.

  “I won’t fuck it up,” he said softly, scared to say more. “I’m cool.”

  Major Estes was many things, Wes thought; bad gambler, loving if distracted father, computer genius, but cool was nowhere on the list.

  “Because if you do fuck anything up,” Wes said, his smile nowhere in sight now, “jail will be the least of what you’ll have to worry about. Do you understand me?”

  Major nodded, although he didn’t really have a clue. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Wes slid the envelope across the table and stood up. This meeting was over. “Take care of the check, will you?”

  Major restrained an impulse to withdraw the bills and fan them out like a winning hand, but even he knew better. Time for that later.

  “Yes,” he said. “I will.”

  Wes rewarded him with one last smile. “Don’t forget to leave a tip.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A Sister in Transition

  THE REV AND MR. EDDIE HAD CHECKED IN FROM SOUTH GEORGIA, and my next appointment with Flora wasn’t until tomorrow night. I had called Miss Iona to tell her my D.C. contact had said we didn’t need to worry about the plot, as she was heading out to her book club meeting. She had invited me to join them for their Black History Month discussion of The Hemings of Monticello, by that black woman lawyer who confirmed once and for all that Thomas Jefferson had a complex, long-term, sexual relationship with one of his slaves, Sally Hemings, without ever freeing her.